Tired
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Weariness in the aftermath of a demanding situation has unexpected side-effects.
1. Chapter 1

**StarTrek and all its intellectual property belongs to Paramount. No infringement intended, no profit made.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom I am, as always, indebted.**

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If he hadn't been so tired, it might never have happened.

Tired? He was beyond tired, actually. Exhausted was more like it – so worn out that he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep the clock round, when at last the ship finally left orbit and resumed her voyage. Or at least – if a good 24 hours' worth wasn't possible – to at least skip dinner and crash out in his cabin, secure in the knowledge that he should have a good 12 hours of uninterrupted slumber before his alarm summoned him back to a spell of ordinary duty.

Instead of which, here he was, dressed up to the nines in full dress uniform and steeling himself for what must surely be the last chapter of a series of diplomatic meetings on Orlhax II that had been a tactical officer's worst nightmare.

It was, he supposed, a tribute to Captain Archer's growing reputation that he'd been invited to mediate in a quarrel between two neighbouring systems that had been going on for more than a quarter of a century. Nevertheless, although the captain had accepted the invitation, the situation had been so dangerous that it had been against his tactical officer's frantic representations. Once it had become clear to him that they were considering taking the ship into a war zone, Malcolm had been firmly of the opinion that they should stay out of the whole damned thing.

He should be used by now to having his advice ignored; there had been plenty of times when he'd wondered what the hell the captain had hired him for in the first place. But the delegations from Orlhax and Manaa had decided that they didn't trust Starfleet security personnel either. If the captain was to mediate, he had to go alone – and _Enterprise _had to sit motionless, all weapons kept sedulously offline, under the unblinking gaze of four massive warships while her captain was removed and taken away for ... talks.

Sleep? It had been out of the question. When he wasn't on duty he'd alternated between battering hell out of the punch bag in the gymnasium or going desperately through what little information the Vulcan database could provide about the two civilisations and their bloody little war, trying to formulate a way of rescuing the captain and keeping the ship intact long enough to escape if the negotiations went pear-shaped. The conditions imposed on their presence had been so restrictive that they were virtually blindfolded. As well as weapons, scanners had also had to be switched off; the Orlhaxians apparently disapproved of outsiders gleaning information about their home world. So there the ship had sat, blind and helpless, while the chronometers grew lethargic and tempers grew frayed, and even T'Pol had declined to contest Trip's umpteenth remark that these damned talks were taking _waaay _too long if you asked _him._

But finally – finally! – some kind of a deal had been hammered out. The captain had been returned safely to the ship, and had announced that in gratitude he and his senior staff had been invited to a banquet that evening.

By which time, Malcolm Reed's nerves had been reduced to extremely well-chewed straws, and it had only been with the greatest difficulty that he'd achieved the 'Yes, sir,' that his commanding officer so clearly expected.

So here he was. Washed and brushed and the first into the launch bay, and as edgy as a cat on a hot tin roof. He consoled himself with the thought that there was just this one thing left to get through, and then they could all get out of here...

Tired. Oh God, he was just so tired.

He leaned against the side of the shuttlepod and closed his eyes briefly, anticipating sleep. Sleep, wonderful, enchanting, beguiling sleep, with the steady pulse of the warp engine for a lullaby...

He must actually have nodded off for a second, because when his eyes opened she was in front of him, and he hadn't even heard her come in.

Long afterwards, it occurred to him to wonder whether he'd ever actually seen her at all before that moment, or simply accepted some mental construct in the form of a technically female communications officer, with whom it was his duty to interact in the service of the ship.

He'd seen her around the place in leisure clothes, of course, and saw her daily on duty on the Bridge. But never, ever like this.

She was in peach-coloured silk, a long dress that clung to her slender form in a way neither her coverall nor her gym clothes had ever done. Instead of being severely caught up at the back of her head, her silky black hair was swinging free, framing her face, which he suddenly realised was absolutely beautiful. Possibly because it was smiling up at him, and at that moment in time he would have traded his immortal soul – if he'd believed he possessed such a thing – for the right to lean forward and kiss her.

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	2. Chapter 2

If she hadn't been so tired, it might never have happened.

She was tired.

She was unbelievably tired, despite having been so worn out every night that she'd tumbled into bed and slept the sleep of the shattered.

She'd had only a couple of days beforehand to work through the intricacies of the Orlhaxian language and program the UT for the captain's use during the talks. Fortunately, Manaaian had so many similarities that it was plain to her that both of them shared a common ancestor; the resemblance was close enough to make programming that relatively simple. Nevertheless, after the first day the captain had asked her to maintain a comm link with him to ensure that he was getting the right picture – Manaaian in particular was a poetic, allusive language. She had therefore had to spend hours each day listening intently to two languages with which she'd only just become familiar and murmuring a constant summarized translation for transmission to the captain's earpiece. Her task wasn't perhaps quite as daunting as his, for he not only had to listen to her but interpret the delegates' body language and formulate his responses as well, but it had been pretty damned exhausting all the same.

When the agreement was finally reached, it had taken all her self-control to refrain from screeching 'Thank goodness for THAT!' straight down into the captain's earpiece. She'd taken herself straight into the shower, wishing instead that it was a bath so that she could spend the evening soaking all the stiffness out of her body before tumbling into bed.

And now it was the last act of the play, and she was to accompany the senior officers to the banquet being thrown in the captain's honor. During the day she'd put the last updates into the UT, so hopefully he'd be safe enough during the evening without her monitoring everything that was said to him. Everyone else would have similarly updated UTs, and with a little luck that should ensure the occasion passed without any unfortunate misunderstandings. Nevertheless, in acknowledgment of her part in the achievement of finally getting a peace brokered between Orlhax and Manaa, Captain Archer had invited her to be part of the Starfleet contingent.

Which was why she'd spent the last hour getting herself all dressed up in an outfit she'd never had occasion to wear since she'd come aboard, and now walked into the launch bay with steps that were somewhat different from her usual easy, booted stride on board; after so long, heels took a bit of getting used to again.

And that was where she found Lieutenant Reed, who'd obviously been so determined to be punctual that he'd been the first to arrive, and who was obviously even more tired than she was; because, unbelievably, he'd dozed off leaning against the shuttlepod door, and didn't hear her come in.

Leaning there, his eyes shut, and his face unexpectedly vulnerable, he looked somehow different to the aloof and unapproachable officer she was used to seeing across the Bridge. The dress uniform fitted him perfectly, emphasizing his lean, compact body, so that the memory rushed unbidden into her mind of how it had felt when he'd been pressed up against her in the Armory, correcting her stance during phase pistol practice. His demeanor then had been absolutely professional; no hint of anything even slightly improper could be inferred, even if the mere suggestion of Mister Regulations putting a toe outside total propriety hadn't been absurd in itself. He'd touched her exactly how and for how long he had to, no more and no less. Nevertheless, the proximity of him, and the waft of the rather nice pine-scented aftershave he was wearing, had set off some rather _un_professional thoughts that she'd had to take some pains to conceal.

These had faded away over time, starving to death for want of the fuel of encouragement. She knew he thought of her as just another of his responsibilities, and she thought of him as … well, her opinions varied. Sometimes he was an uptight Brit ass with attitude, and sometimes (off-duty) he was even kind of cute, and sometimes she felt sorry for him, because trying to rein in Jonathan Archer's enthusiasm must be like trying to bareback-ride a buffalo.

Now, however, seeing him momentarily disarmed and defenseless, an unlikely Sleeping Beauty propped against the shuttlepod, the memory of those unprofessional thoughts rushed back again. She pictured to herself a little mischievously what he'd say if she leaned forward and planted a kiss on his mouth. It would be almost worth the reprimand such an outrageous breach of regulations would be sure to earn her….

She tiptoed closer. He still didn't wake. She noticed the careworn lines on his face, the dark shadows under his eyes. He held himself so responsible for the safety of the ship and everyone on board, the past few days must have been impossibly hard on him. No wonder he was falling asleep where he stood.

She didn't think she made any sound, but suddenly his eyes flicked open. He looked sleepy, startled, unsure for just a second of where he was. His gaze fastened on her and flickered down over her dress before returning to her face. She was close enough to see his pupils dilate. For once taken completely aback, he didn't have time to pull the shutters across the blaze of his reaction.

If she hadn't been so tired that she hadn't been able to think straight, she'd have stepped backwards and let both of them catch themselves into their professional personae. If she hadn't been so tired that she was in that mental state where the stupidest ideas seemed to make perfect sense, she'd have made some excuse about thinking he was ill. If she hadn't been so tired that for once she didn't care about the consequences, she'd have thought twice about what she did next.

If he hadn't been so tired that the moment caught him completely unawares, he'd have had some strategy prepared for getting them both out of this intact. If he hadn't been so tired that the reins by which he governed his conduct tore in his hands like perished leather, he'd have pushed her away instead of pulling her in closer. If he hadn't been so tired that the thought of the regulations against fraternization went up in flames at the first touch of her mouth, and his hands on her body, everything that happened afterwards would have been different.

If they hadn't both been so tired, in fact, nothing would ever have happened at all.


	3. Chapter 3

They were both tired during the banquet, but for both of them the world was different.

They hardly looked at one another and seldom spoke, but they were constantly aware of one another. He knew when she picked up a piece of fruit and ate it, and she saw the way his fingers played briefly with a napkin, pleating it.

After the eating, there was socializing. When she turned aside from speaking to one of their hosts, she saw the gloss of light slide down a gray sleeve close by in the crowd. When he prowled through the throng, he noted the ripple of blue light on black hair and caught the whiff of vanilla and musk.

The banquet went on, interminable. Outside, a lemon moon rose and its reflection stood in the palace lake beyond the terrace.

She walked out to admire it and to breathe fresh air – so many guests were making the atmosphere within uncomfortably close. She didn't look around, but leaned on the terrace wall, listening to the quiet.

His footsteps were all but soundless, though she heard them just the same. He stopped behind her, not touching. She caught the cool scent of pine needles.

He breathed her name, so softly that it might have been a trick of the night wind that wandered through the trees at the lake's edge, and in her ears it was the sound of all longing.

He gazed over her shoulder at the lemon moon mirrored in the motionless surface of the lake, and imagined her rising from the water, naked and gilded by the light, with pearls running down her flawless skin. _But beauty's self she is–!_

He was intoxicated with exhaustion and the night, with the memory of her kisses and the proximity of her now, the chasm that ached between them so narrow it could have been spanned by a hand. But there were too many eyes, and doubts crowded into his mind: did she regret what she'd impulsively done, was she afraid of what more might follow?

Not a word had passed between them by the time the banquet ended; it had been dangerous even to stand together for long, and a laughing Trip had drawn her back inside, with the lure of some obscure point of translation that needed an expert's opinion. They had left the lemon moon and the lake, but the silence had remained unbroken, and they moved in it as they returned to the shuttlepod.

He went alone to his quarters, without looking at her.

Alone in her cabin, she stared for a long time into the mirror.

The corridors were darkened and deserted.

His hands drew her in, into the darkness where no lemon moon watched them.

* * *

She slipped from him early, long before the automatic brightening of the ship's lights mimicked sunrise.

Neither of them spoke. She turned just once. She'd thought him still sleeping, but the low light from the corridor reflected in his eyes, the way the yellow moon had reflected in the lake.

When she stared into the mirror again, his eyes looked back at her. In her mind she cried out, lost in his passion and his complexity.

He listened to her retreating footsteps, and in his mind he recreated the vanished shape of beauty.

**End.**


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